Drowning
by AlElizabeth
Summary: Sam takes desperate measures to end his depression. Set before Season 4. WARNING: Major character death and themes of suicide.


Sam Winchester took a deep breath before slipping into the warm bathwater, telling himself again, that he was doing the right thing.

 _SPN_

Dean Winchester frowned when the slow, sad opening notes to an R.E.M song began to play on the radio and fiddled with the dial until he found something he liked.

Looking up at the front windows of the KFC restaurant he'd stopped at, Dean wondered what was taking them so long with his chicken. Were they out back killing and plucking the feathers off the damn birds?

Finally, twenty minutes after he'd been asked by the pimply kid behind the counter to pull around to a parking space, Dean caught sight of a teenage girl with bright pink hair hurrying out the doors with a bucket and a couple of brown paper bags, her head bowed against the pelting rain.

The hunter swung open the door and reached out for his food.

"Sorry for the wait," the girl apologized quickly, shoving the containers at Dean before turning on her heel and dashing back to the safety of the restaurant.

Setting the bags and bucket on the passenger's seat, Dean started the Impala's engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

He hoped Sam was happy. It was his brother who had bitched when he suggested they get burgers. Biting his tongue, Dean had offered an alternative and although his brother wasn't too pleased by the option, hadn't argued.

So, off Dean had gone in search of the nearest Kentucky Fried Chicken; not his first choice of places to eat, but with Sam's deep-seated aversion to hamburgers, he didn't have many choices when it came to fast food.

"This better be worth it," Dean grumbled to himself, eyeing the greasy containers sitting beside him with suspicion.

 _W_

It took Dean nearly twenty minutes to reach the motel where he and Sam were staying. The rain made drivers extra-cautious and many of them inched forward at a snails pace, only increasing the hunter's irritation and burning away his already short fuse.

Telling himself that if Sam made one negative comment about the food, he'd lose his shit, Dean pulled into the parking spot in front of their motel room and cut the Impala's engine. Grabbing the packages, he shoved his door open and stepped outside. It was cold and damp, a really crappy night and truthfully, Dean was glad to be back home for the night.

The door was unlocked and he let himself into the room. It looked just as it had when he left; the two twin beds were unmade, the television playing a rerun of COPS in one corner, except for one thing. Sam wasn't where Dean had left him. The hunter glanced at the small, scarred table his brother had been sitting at, playing around on his laptop. The computer still sat on top of the table, humming quietly to itself, its screen saver hiding whatever Sam had been looking at.

"Hey, Sam!" Dean called, his gaze moving around the room to the closed bathroom door, "I got dinner! Hurry up in there!"

Pushing the computer out of the way, Dean set the two bags and the bucket on the table and opened them, taking out two sets of plastic knives and forks, napkins, paper plates, French fries, gravy, macaroni and cheese, and coleslaw.

"You want a beer?" Dean called to his brother.

There was no answer.

"Sam!" he snapped, "What are you doing in there?"

Still there was no response.

Dean took a step closer to the door, "Did you fall in or something?"

The hunter's question was only met by silence.

"Sam?" Dean asked, "Sammy?"

Moving swiftly across the tiny motel room, Dean reached the bathroom in seconds.

"I hope you're decent," Dean gripped the doorknob, "'Cause I'm coming in."

He tried to turn the handle only to find it wouldn't budge; the door was locked.

"Sam?" Dean called again, "Sammy? You okay?"

Again, he heard nothing.

"Look, if you're sick in there," Dean began, "Just let me in and I can help you, all right?"

Dean waited for a count of three seconds.

Something's wrong, he thought and, still holding the doorknob, thrust his shoulder into the door.

The door shuddered but didn't open. Dean hit it again with his shoulder.

"Sammy!" he called, "SAMMY!"

The door, only made of flimsy chipboard, didn't stand a chance and within seconds was splintering where Dean's shoulder met its cheap wood.

With a crack and the splintering of plywood, the door burst open and Dean stumbled into the grimy bathroom. Even though the lights were on, it took him a moment to locate his brother.

As soon as his gaze lit upon Sam, lying motionless in the bottom of the bathtub filled with water, Dean instantly went cold.

"Sammy," he groaned and moved forward on legs that felt as though they were made of concrete.

Falling to his knees at the side of the tub, Dean reached in and lifted his unmoving sibling by the armpits and out of the water.

With great effort, Dean dragged his brother out of the tub, dropping him unceremoniously onto the cracked tile floor of the bathroom. Water sloshed over the side of the tub, lukewarm, but Dean barely noticed; Sam's clothes streamed with even more water as he lay on his back in front of his brother, his skin deathly pale, his lips purple.

Dean pressed his ear to his brother's chest and felt no heartbeat.

"Shit Sammy," Dean swore, "Shit…shit… shit…"

Fishing in his jacket pocket, the hunter clutched at his phone, fumbling to dial for an ambulance.

"Fire, ambulance or police?" a calm, female voice asked him.

"Ambulance," Dean gasped as his eyes darted around the bathroom, catching sight of the bottle of Jim Beam on the counter, nearly empty, and the bottle of Tylenol 3 tipped over on its side beside it.

"What's your emergency?" a male voice asked Dean.

"I think my brother's tried to kill himself," the hunter told the dispatcher, feeling as though it was someone else speaking and not him.

"Can you tell me what happened?" the dispatcher asked.

"I just came in from getting us dinner and the bathroom door was closed," Dean explained, his hand not holding the phone rubbing his brother's chest in an unconscious gesture of comfort, "It was locked. I opened it. Sam…. Sammy was… he was in the tub… in the w-water…"

"How long ago did you find your brother?" the dispatcher asked with infuriating calmness.

"Two… Three minutes?"

"Is he breathing?"

"N-No," Dean told the man.

"Did you start CPR?"

"I can't feel his heartbeat!" Dean snapped at the man.

"Okay," the dispatcher said, "I'm going to send an ambulance to your location immediately; where are you?"

For one horrifying moment, Dean couldn't remember the address or the name of the motel they were staying at. His own heart, still pumping blood to his organs, skipped a beat, before going into overdrive. Dean groaned.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," the dispatcher said in Dean's ear.

"We're at, uh, the Carlyle Motel," Dean told him, "Its, um, one hundred seventeen Monroe Street."

"I'm sending paramedics to your address right now," the dispatcher assured Dean.

The hunter ended the call and stared down at his brother. He didn't know what to do. Unexpectedly, his eyes filled with hot tears and overflowed, streaming down his face. Dean grabbed at his brother's soggy clothes and shook him.

"Sam! Wake up! Damn it! Get up!" He shouted, never feeling so helpless in his entire life.

"Sam! Sammy! Get up! Wake up!" Dean continued to shout, "Damn you! Damn you!"

 _W_

Five minutes later Dean was shoved out of the tiny bathroom as two paramedics squeezed into the small space. Not certain what he was supposed to do or where to go, the hunter sat down at the table and stared at the food he'd brought for dinner, now cold and congealed.

He listened without really understanding, the paramedics talking to one another, as they discussed his brother.

It seemed to take forever for one of the paramedics to get up and leave the bathroom. She walked over to Dean, her expression grim.

"We're going to take your brother to the hospital," she told Dean.

"Is he okay?" he asked, trying to look behind her at his sibling.

"We managed to get his heart beating again," she told him, as though this was the good news, "But he needs to see a doctor right away."

"Okay," Dean replied. What else could he say?

"Are you all right to drive?" the paramedic asked and Dean nodded.

The woman turned and joined her partner. Together they pushed a gurney out of the bathroom. Sam lay atop the gurney, his face still colourless, his nose and mouth obscured by a mask, his shirt open and the electrodes for the defibrillator visible.

Dean stood in the doorway and watched silently as the paramedics loaded the gurney into the back of the ambulance, then, lights flashing and sirens blaring, the vehicle sped out of the parking lot and onto the street.

The hunter remained where he was for a long moment before turning around and returning to the bathroom. He stared at the bathtub, at the water puddled on the floor, the bottles of painkillers and alcohol.

This didn't feel real. It felt like a nightmare.

For a brief moment Dean wondered if he was, in fact, asleep and when he would wake up.

He closed his eyes and waited.

Nothing happened. He didn't wake up and when he opened his eyes the bathroom had not changed.

"Sammy," Dean mumbled, his voice cracking.

Turning, he left the motel room, pausing only to close the door behind himself and returned to the Impala.

 _SPN_

Sam felt as though he were drowning. He felt as though he were submerged under icy waters, never able to reach the surface no matter how hard he tried. He fought and fought and fought but it was no use… and he was getting tired.

 _SPN_

Dean slouched in the brown plastic waiting room chair, a Styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in his hands. He stared at the faded carpet beneath his feet, trying to figure out why Sam would do something like this.

 _SPN_

He was losing hope like lifeblood streaming from a mortal wound. Every day, a little more hope ebbed away and darkness took its place.

 _SPN_

Dean didn't get it. Why? Why would Sam try and kill himself? Sure, they didn't have the best lives in the world but they had a job, people depended on them to protect them. That was what kept Dean going: the thought of all those innocent people who needed their help.

 _SPN_

Life lost its luster. Emotions dulled, food became tasteless, his eyes only saw in shades of grey. Even a smile became painful.

 _SPN_

Why hadn't Sam said anything? Why had he remained silent? Dean would have listened if Sam had only spoken up. Didn't he know that? He could tell Dean anything. Why didn't he tell him he was feeling so bad?

 _SPN_

He couldn't do this anymore. No more could he keep up the charade. It was too much work, too painful, too exhausting. All he wanted to do was sleep.

 _SPN_

When Sam got out of the hospital Dean would let him know he could talk; he would _make_ him talk. He knew it wasn't the Winchester way of dealing with all the shit in their lives, but the way they had learned to deal with their pain was clearly not the right way.

 _SPN_

Sam closed his eyes and allowed himself to float away. Soon there would be no pain, no exhaustion; he could stop trying to make everyone around him think he was fine.

 _SPN_

"Family of Sam Winchester?"

Dean looked up to see a short nurse of Chinese decent peering around the waiting room.

Standing on legs stiff from sitting so long, Dean turned to the woman.

"I'm his brother."

The nurse nodded, unsmiling.

"Is my brother all right? Can I see him?"

"You may see him," the nurse told him.

Dean smiled with relief.

"But I'm sorry to tell you," she began, "We weren't able to save him. You're brother's passed away."

Dean felt as though the floor had dropped out from under his feet. He stared at the nurse in disbelief.

"No," he whispered, "No, you're lying."

"I'm truly sorry," the nurse apologized.

"You're lying!" Dean snapped, "You're lying!"

"Please," the nurse held out her hands, "You need to calm down, sir."

"This is bull shit! Sam's not dead! He's not! He can't be!" Dean shouted as thought the volume of his voice could make the nurse's words untrue.

"If you can't remain calm," the nurse warned, "I'll have to call security."

Dean, fuming, stalked away from the woman, across the waiting room and punched the wall, hard. Then, he returned to the nurse.

"Take me to my brother," he ground out.

As he followed the nurse down a maze of corridors, all he could think was that there had been some mistake, some mix-up and that Sam was okay. There was just no way, _no way_ Sam could be gone.

The nurse led him to a room and pushed the door open. It was silent inside. There was no beeping of a heart monitor, no whoosh of a breathing machine, nothing.

Sam lay on the bed, the sheets around him rumbled and littered with medical debris. His face was as white as snow, his lips blue, eyes closed.

Dean stood in the doorway, suddenly afraid to go inside.

"I'll give you a few minutes," the nurse said quietly and Dean heard her walking away.

"Sammy," he murmured, hands gripping the doorframe with white knuckles.

"Sammy," Dean said, a little louder.

His brother did not move.

As though they had a mind of their own, Dean's legs propelled him forward and suddenly he was standing at the side of the bed, staring down at his sibling.

Tentatively, afraid that if he touched Sam it would mean that he was really, truly, dead, Dean reached down and took hold of his brother's hand. It was cold beneath his warm palm.

"S-Sammy," Dean stammered, tears welling in his eyes again, "Sammy… no… it's not true… it's not."

But his sibling neither moved nor did he speak.

"S-Sammy," Dean said again and began to cry in earnest.

Raising his sibling's hand, the elder brother pressed the cool skin against his cheek, hot tears running over the unmoving fingers.

 _W_

"Christ, Dean, I didn't know," Bobby Singer told the younger hunter, shaking his head, as they watched the flames consume the pyre which held Sam Winchester's body.

"Neither did I," Dean told him, "Sam hid it too damn well."

Bobby glanced at Dean, "There was nothing?"

Dean shook his head.

"Did he… I mean, was there a note or anything?" the older hunter asked.

"No," Dean answered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, fingers brushing against one of the brochures on suicide the nurse at the hospital had given him.

"I just wish he'd felt he could tell me about the pain he was feeling," Dean said, mostly speaking to himself.

Bobby nodded, eyes on the flames.

"What are you going to do now?" Bobby asked.

"What we always do," Dean told him, "Keep going."


End file.
